"camouflaging" poems
he walks alone; faking a smile
deep within are pairs of agonies
grief, distraught; but still he smiles
walking down the pavement, he stops
turning around are unfriendly friends
they wave at him; camouflaging a smile
he looks away and continues
He has moved thus far, still no one
he hears the birds chipping; the cats crying and water falling
the queen of the night's flower arouse him; bringing him to a rush of impulse and pleasure, but still he wanders
they have stabbed him twice; his closest pals
they set him up; they slander him behind the scene and still rush to.him with cold hands
he has decided to stay firm; a man of his own- to walk through the valley alone; A Beautiful Loner.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
Soccer season arrives, you’re excited until you start waking up at 6:30 a.m. every day during the summer. As the first game is on, you arrive expecting to play just to realize you’re warming up the bench. It’s not a big deal, it’s still August and it’s easier to tan while sitting down. It isn’t until you’re laying there camouflaging between the soccer bags; laying like a lizard taking the sun in that your coach yells for you to jump in. You scramble up and trip between bags and ***** making your way to the sideline. You do the final stretches and make your way in awkwardly lifting your hand to high-five your teammate coming out who misses it completely. Then it’s game on, it is time to start playing. But that is not how it goes. 15 minutes into the game you realize you have roamed the same 15 square foot area all this time. I got the ball once, I controlled it on my feet. Yeah, I know. Unfortunately when I turned the ball found it’s way between my legs and fell into the opposite player. ****** I’m getting a good tan though; I think I was supposed to get that pass, I slowly jog towards it. Should I? Well now the ball is gone. Let’s go back to my 15 square foot area; my legs are tired. I see the ball coming from up in the air, I’ve never done this. I’m running, just keep running. No, that’s the sun not the ball. There’s the ball, jump, jump. jump. I jump and a 200 pound guy crashes with me, I’m on the floor. Done.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
A year ahead, a year passed by,
The doors are still opened, and the ponds are still dry,
You did say you loved me, you did say goodbye,
Our irrevocable commitments proved promises are a lie.
Its the night recalling the showers in the springs,
And the weekend waltz to the attuned strings,
You revolve around me today, with your name engraved within,
Stop hiding from me, so long where have you been?
But for a second i believed..
As the gush of wind whispered your name,
The clock is ticking beside our picture frame,
You're flowing like the river,in your gown , camouflaging blue,
Lined up a lot of work, I still got seconds for you.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC
I used to be your birdhouse.
I could coax you out from your seat in the treetops
from behind the camouflaging greens
and watch you edge out shyly with the wind ruffling your blush feathers.
You'd cling to me when the spring showers started falling
and I could keep you safe and dry, I could always do that.
I'd be there to hear your youthful songs, and I'd whisper back in a language just we knew
and then I'd hug you goodbye and watch you step precariously from my perch,
flapping in the wind, unsure, unaccustomed.
and I'd be there for you the next day and the next
because I thought you'd still need me.
I never thought I'd see you, the point of a flying V
soaring with your head held high,
not even glancing down at
my tired wooden walls
and faded empty perch.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Distill water is healing.
The moons voice manipulates the ocean,
By reaching and pulling away from the sand
the suns smile equips us with Vitamin C
The Water cycle is a universal enigma.
She starts of as clouds quenching our planet with:
Oceans, lakes, rivers, and water puddles
she evaporates into mist of waves
Camouflaging her family recipe in the sky,
While cooks up new baby clouds
its starts all over again like the tadpole evolution
even though we all take water for granted sometimes,
She still supplies our needs.
By Shannon Pollard
©Summer 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
Shadows of my reflection. I found bliss in crawling on walls freely, camouflaging with the dark and the moon's exposure whereby my identity surfaced.
My emancipation from the mundane. Stay right beside you though you aren't around,I repetitively question who am I? We're one yet separate entities. I enjoy knowing you're around though at times you disappear when I'm in the dark. (Erase the last line)I'm appreciative of the shelter you provide. There was harmony in my resonance with nyctophilia.
You're always here with me. I'm always here with you. Nothing contrary to that.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
I don't resemble an angel,
But I definitely look like a demon.
I don't resemble an angel,
But I definitely look like a demon.
Perhaps you mistook me for the Archangel,
But I'm a definitely a staunch demon searching for an angel.
I'm definitely not the archangel,
I'm but surely the devil.
I'm definitely not the archangel,
I'm but surely the devil.
Perhaps I fooled you by camouflaging an Angel,
But I fell from grace long ago when you were not even born.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Love lived a decade ago;
Calendar dated 10th century,
Top chest smeared with last millennium's dust and dried rose petals,
Bottom shelf stacked with the Recent epoch's chronicles in scrolls,
And I wrote this anecdote during the late Eocene,
But I am now an era old;
Too short of memory to remember fairytales,
Too outgrown to believe magic tricks or play a game of chance,
Too outworn to have my heartstrings plucked,
Too callous to bear a soft spot,
Too archaic to belong in any contemporary world,
Too ancient for a technological revolution.
Fixed in a period that won't age,
Absent of a timekeeper, missing every timepiece;
My antique mind couldn't only smarten up for
This relic of a body, camouflaging skin-deep among prototypes,
Preserving the fossils of my endangered heart.
Maybe one day a noble clocksmith will come
And build us a time machine.
Maybe I'll have my youth back
When Ana teleports back to Erin,
Where her misplaced soul will finally be home with the gods,
For I think I'd do fine without her anymore,
As I land inside a time capsule,
Or wake up as a hand-me-down,
In time at long last with today's pendulum clock.
I'd be lucky if it's the clocksmith who takes such artifact.
But until such time warp,
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
See them with their
Fine shape,
Flawless face
And pretty eyes?
You don't have to
Fall prey,
I say
it's a disguise!
They may have a
Glide walk,
**** talk;
Pulitzer prize;
You would make a
Mistake
Be half-baked
And neutralized.
Camouflaging
Hurt past
Hourglass
Of yesterday.
With them you will
Come last,
Kiss ***
Or run away!
So make sure you
Look deep
Before you leap
Into their arms,
Or you may catch a
Deep sleep,
Cry and weep
Cuz of their charms.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 12:24 PM UTC
you judge and sentence my actions
one swift move erasing the cause
easily forgetting your actions
there can be no reaction without an action
take away the emotion and the kicked up dust
left a spoiled brat beyond reform
wrapped in foil to reflect what i wanted to see
what i was desperate to see
in a blessed action from heaven
you broke contact with me
no it was not long
just long enough
to brake the ties around me
once free
i realized your abusive ways
hiding behind social media
dancing the cycle
honeymoon to outburst back to honeymoon
blocked you still try and find my ears
the audience no longer exist
you question the integrity of my character
camouflaging the real issue
telling your family you are an unwanted bachelor
owning up to your actions
from a distance i view the kicked up dust cloud
it reads the integrity of your character
thank god i can walk away
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
I am knees deep in a quick sand
designed for people like me
by a system that thrives
on a climate of fear
Obtaining knowledge while selling my soul
Profit driven suits,
splurging words about our rights
and our duties
Camouflaging their own self-interest
Playing monopoly on knowledge
Convincing us,
that chasing that silly piece of paper
is the only option
Concealing the true cost that
comes with knowledge
One most of us will never be able to afford
An ocean of debt,
one I will surely pay until I'm dead
Behold the loophole though,
silver spooned fed mouths
need not sink nor swim
That hollowed shaped silver
holding them high above ground
While the rest of us sink
limb by limb
into a quicksand that was designed for people like us
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
They told me she died.
So I woke up in the graveyard of my dead dreams,
Took up my trusted shovel,
And like a good old country lad,
Decided to dig her up.
They told me she died.
But I knew they had to be wrong.
Why, there she lay, as unattainable as ever,
Smiling smugly from her coffin,
Mocking me with her fake omniscience.
For Death, may be a great leveller,
And make sceptre and crown
Just tumble down,
But not so her beauty.
They told me she died.
But how could i believe them,
After knowing her wicked wit of Solomon.
With which all her life,
She didn't let death so much as touch her beauty,
For she hid it so deep within,
Veiled beneath the layers of toughness
And faded tee’s,
That even a soldier camouflaging her scarlet skin,
Would be put to shame.
They told me she died.
But they didn't bury her beside me.
But by another man’s side.
Because he was man enough to ask
What i should’ve,
And now she lies buried,
As his bride.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
i.
some days I am more
wolf than woman
and it’s hard to hide my fangs.
I’ll hiss and snarl and spit the blood
of those who trespass against my land.
ii.
some days I am more
wolf than woman
and it’s not that hard to understand.
I cannot be tamed or caged or chained,
I am the alpha of the pack.
iii.
some days I am more
wolf than woman
and there is no strength I lack,
but hiding and camouflaging
with the sheep
does not make my fur more black.
iv.
most days I am more
wolf than woman,
and you’ll find me bathe
underneath the moonlight.
in the slightest of mannerisms
you’ll discover, it’s not that
easy for me to hide.
hunting and guarding and marking
until the weary day turns to night.
in the way, that I tread the land
these claws covered by a pretty coat
and smiling- hah, no that’s the
predator baring her fangs to show you
how it’ll dig into your throat.
more wolf than woman | shevaun stonem
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 2:23 AM UTC
One look around,
Plastered everywhere like a boomerang that never calms down,
Hypocritical words and false perfection.
Coloring the bags under their eyes
Camouflaging the stretch mark on their thighs
And the rest of us stay fixated on our insecurities.
They get paid millions of dollars
To correct their microphoned voices
And be honored for the 'hottest celebrity'
When they are just like the rest of us.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
i ruptured into a
million flickering stars
too long ago, breaking from
touch-induced trauma and the
poisonous aspects of
bleach. my thoughts drip
from the ink veins
of pens; ******* it,
i cannot allow myself
the privilege of
saying, “this
is every secret i
ever hid.” i am not
soft or pretty or
loving; i am small
and hurt and reticent
and guilty and abandoned. i
long to be the
little girl i was six years ago
before he shredded my
insides, sprouted roses
in my blood, wrapped his ******
thorns around my throat. there is
no recognition of that beloved
innocence. the girl in the mirror
never looks back at me: she is knotted
hair, decaying paper skin,
scarlet gashes, pink
scar tissue. i am not
sweet or darling. i am
ravaged. van gogh swallowed
yellow paint to create some
feigned happiness, and i understand
that in the nastiest way. i spent my time
trying to shelter the black and blue
daisies on my hips with makeup,
camouflaging razorblades in fields
of sunflowers, pouring every
unhealthy bit of my starved
stomach into the beautiful
lilies in the flowerpot in the
bathroom. i have unearthed
that home is not the
safest place to be.
i was infected and diagnosed with
the disease of loneliness
by age eight. this wound
has burdened me yet the
ticking time tomb nestled in
the crooks of my devastated
personality will soon detonate; they
told me i was sick, and i think
i finally believe that.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
He was a man
A lizard
The one that crawls out of its skin
Camouflaging ‘till it’s sweating the rocks
Keen on what it wants, what it feels
That very moment
Is all that matters, all that fills
Him
His fibs
were a well-tailored fit
But he bit his own head off too often
and stood empty
Like a wishing well
or an abyss,
The pit in which I threw my dreams in
But he couldn’t fit the sentiment
Wishes were demands that bared the skeleton
Their little mouths crunching
and talking to him
He calcified his judgement to acquit the fugitive
And he blowtorched my size, my wit
Until he could no longer
speak of it
or enjoy it
I had been burning for days
Up until the day he palpated the shame
Of the impulse, of the way
a man could perfect his death
Behind the mountain of skin, undressed
the tongue was hissing in his pit
I sat him on the chair, roped to one question
Why did you do it
And if guilt is the sharpest
tool to deface him,
the man
couldn’t look at me
A mallard too limp to admit
his interests were monotypic,
only equipped
to fit his own ****
I should have de-plucked it
Drained and throat-hung it
For the many nights
I made love to a liar
But, I let him keep all of his fingers
so the man
may continue
******* himself
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
*“I love you like the moon.”
“I’d do anything to see that smile.”
“I’m standing on a roof
and the tingle of the edge
reminds me of you..”
“Anything, anything for those eyes.”*
“Do you want the gifts I have for you?
Nope, I just want you.
Kay, I’ll wear a bow.
I’ll wear a bow too..”
too,
too,
too,
girdled,
packed up,
ensnared, stacked, ****** up -
All fickle,
molded, folded
to the point where the paper
starts to tear,
“One day, we’ll get married.”
Cold,
recycled feelings
and you still don’t care?
Care enough to play nice
with the frail beast
at your feet,
the silent song
whisking
the oil
and
water
into grey -
“A fantasy –that’s what you are to me..”
Vacuous games
you still like to play -
as if
I were a fool, too,
like him –
or a fool, too,
like you -
not to see how bad you are,
how sad you are,
lonesome,
aching baritone
deceiving a different home
with the loudness still in your lap,
ended with that slap,
started, again, with that stare,
that glare into a promise,
a dream worth more while
than a bed full of loveless tricks
and a jealous heart
rung out,
back in the back,
where the bees feast
on all the hot meat
swallowed,
inhaled by your salty appetite
for sadness,
contrived madness,
again,
again,
a_grain?,
again,
a_gain?,
again,
a_pain -
****
ungird me from this swaddling love cocoon,
unshackle me,
untie me from this camouflaging lie,
unwind me,
unbind me,
don’t blanket me with all
you think I want to hear…
if you don’t want me -
let me love another
“..almost like it gives you joy crushing me so hard -
all I’ve done is love you.”
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 10:12 PM UTC
Like an upside-down stage curtain, steam rises
over a half-empty cup of ginger tea,
obscuring the dreary view of yet another rainy day.
The woman leans closer to the window
(she’s certain there’ll be an oily stain where her nose
makes contact with the icy glass).
Raindrops are mutating over cracks in the window,
their shadows filling in the blank
blotches in her eyes, camouflaging the liver spots
(themselves otherworldly mutants)
over her hands— sewerage on plumbers’ gloves.
She drinks her tea and whimpers his name.
Scalpel-blade shivers creep over her back,
over the folds in her pantyhose;
chalk marks on the road become visible—
she remembers it like yesterday
when she cradled his broken body in her arms:
police car and ambulance sirens
conjured a dust devil that reeked of young death;
it clung to her designer clothes,
and complemented the purple stench of brake fluid,
petrol, and the god-awful breaths
of bystanders who’d gathered like a swarm of flies,
the soft susurrus of their conversations
intensifying till pencil-lipped, beast-like groans,
ready to feed on the hole in her soul,
salivating to take a bite of grief, and replace it with remorse;
she recalls the sound of her car keys
on the hot tar, which took a chomp out of her left knee,
and warm blood seeping into her every fibre.
Steam and chalk marks fade away into the past.
In front of the refrigerator,
on the grimy vinyl kitchen flooring, a ginger meows;
the woman ignores its pleas,
and reaches for the upside-down picture on the window sill.
A liver spot sprouts from her neck.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
We lie
It is in our nature to deceive
When among apex predators
We hide our true intentions
Constantly camouflaging
In our minds
We make enemies of friends
Wary of what games they play
Friendships becoming wars of attrition
Subvert each other's eyes
Cloud each other's visions
Readying blades
And building intelligence caches
Waiting for the moment
To air out ***** laundry
To manipulate
To puppeteer
To instigate and spread propaganda
A new era of Cold War
As if social interactions
Are but chess games
Who will sacrifice the pawns
Who will take the queen
Who will **** the king
Or are we but pretending to be jesters
Or rooks silently waiting in the corner?
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
After three years, why am I still needing to make impressions? Behaviour alterations, manifesting myself to the person they want to see. Disregarding my character at the door, substituting it for something more - applicable, unnoticeable, unopinionated, mentally castrated because I can’t compete with that.
Introverted woven into the needlework of extroverts, camouflaging the thread, too frightened to be different, to be noticed, so you hide yourself within life’s tapestry. We are hung in different galleries, worlds apart, the north/south divide does it shrink with time? Does love conquer all? It seems such a foreign conquest, I lose myself on the battlefield of personality trying to evade fatality of character. But their numbers are too strong, the war is lasting too long, I can’t compete with that.
Eloquent hunters, fields and farms. Like the hare, the sense of inadequacy follows me down, but it’s through the rabbit hole where I lose control, fumbling for speech at the simplest conversation. My heart races, heat rising from my chest, pores palpitating so pools of sweat dampen my forehead, wishing I could retreat below, stay cool in the shadow, away from illicit bourgeois eyes that see through my proletariat alibi, praying she doesn’t cast me aside because I can’t compete with that.
This is the mental cross that I bare, does she really care? Our relationship is ours not theirs, I need to lay aside my prejudice of the class divide, because in truth the weight of this cross isn’t mine but shared, and it’s holding us back, directing us off the beaten track because love isn’t a competition, but a joint expedition. Alice and I conquering together, and I can compete with that. Forever.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
swallow
I,
too,
swallow.
each groan
repressed
each longing
suppressed,
each nightmare
revisited.
the semantic fluid
stains
my teeth, my face,
no erasure endures,
tracks of my tears,
skin etched everlasting,
beyond camouflaging.
the weights owned,
that the scale
does not register,
stones of stones,
add to a total
that has no
agreeable total
but is a totalitarian oppression
of all day tongue depressions
oh god,
mercy from the weights
I have impressioned and digested
of own free will,
to misbalance my posture,
crook’d, my soul ever reciped,
stains collected,
each stain
swallowed,
see my markings internal,
you have never seen
until you have seen me
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
she’s camouflaging the thrill that hides deep down those tired eyes,
because she doesn’t want to see the world in that way.
she doesn’t want to fear the grace
and laugh the pain.
she wants to live fully,
to drink wine in the morning and coffee in the evening,
to watch the moon fading away once with the morning sky and smile,
because she knows that everything beautiful has it consequences,
they will eventually disappear.
she wants poetry and danger,
she wants you to know that she’s not here to stay,
because she is everywhere.
she wants fantasy in a world of drama,
she wants peace and indie music that will catch her soul and learn it how to fly
she wants portraits and compliments,
cigarettes and champagne,
daisies and lilies.
she wants a naturally simple life.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC